...and heath ledger kicks the bucket

Just a few things worth ponderisation.
(Hate over-ponderising.)
Heath Ledger was found dead last night in his Manhattan apartment, pills strewn around him. Suicide or murder most foul? Either way, I know of one person in the world who is probably wracked in grief. (Besides the collective Australia and his mum) - my old digsmate. She was obsessed with the man. 'Tis very sad, his death. I reckon there are some things that Jesus wouldn't do. Like have a threesome, burp out loud, and stick his finger in the plug socket.

Jessica Fletcher. In Murder She Wrote. Like don't ever go to Cabbot Cove. You will die. I hated Bush before it was cool. Although, on that note, it's probably cooler these days to say that you love George Bush. Because you're going against what everybody else says. And that, my friends, is apparently cool. If you loved someone, and they grew a mullet, would you still love them? I suppose that would be the ultimate test. Right up there with his secret Croc collection.

There's nothing worse than knowing that in someone else's mind – someone else you were close to at one stage - that you don't exist. You're erased, deleted from memory. When your identity and your part in their lives is removed – like old testaments in history – it feels crap right?
Or is it really that bad? Surely if you're not part of their reality or memories, then how can they be a part of yours? Furthermore, perhaps the whole time period was imagined? Perhaps. It. Just. Never. Happened. At. All.